The Coldstone Read Online Free PDF

to a door on the far side and opened it, calling “Gran!”
    When there was no answer, she went through the kitchen, which was spotlessly clean and neat, and passed out into the garden. There was a border with bright flowers, and a strip of orchard with plums and apples ripening. All along the fence there were bee-hives. Mrs. Bowyer was bent over the nearest hive.
    The girl called “Gran!” again, and she turned and came in, walking briskly, just a little bent, in a black dress with a small alpaca apron and a white net cap with lappets. She was small, and her face was covered with multitudes of tiny lines. A little fluffy white hair showed under the cap. Her dark eyes were full of an amazing dancing vigour.
    â€œWhat were you doing, Gran?”
    â€œDoing?” she said. She gave a little pleased laugh. “I were telling the bees—that’s what I were doing. Now I suppose you’ll say you never heard tell of that.”
    Young Susan put her arm about old Susan’s waist.
    â€œWhat were you telling them? Mind the step, Gran!”
    Mrs. Bowyer freed herself.
    â€œLook you here, Susan! I’ve lived in this here house a hundred years come Christmas. Did I ever tell you as I was a Christmas child? They don’t fear hail, nor snow, nor winter blow. Did you ever hear that? And, as I were saying, if I don’t know there’s a step there by now, I’ll never know it.”
    â€œWhat were you telling the bees, Gran?”
    Mrs. Bowyer passed into the living-room and sat down in the oak rocking-chair by the right-hand window. The windows were set on either side of the door. They had latticed panes, behind which bloomed the finest geraniums in Ford St. Mary.
    â€œWhat should I ha’ been telling the bees?” said Mrs. Bowyer. Her voice had lost its ring, but it was still full of energy. “Colstone is master here, and when Colstone comes to Stonegate, that’s the master coming home. And when the master comes home, you’re bound to tell the bees. If you don’t, they’ll turn cross on you. Bees has got to be told when things happen to their folks, and if you don’t tell ’em, they goes contrary. And that’s why all these new-fangle folk make such a muck of bee-keeping.”
    Susan stood by the hearth. There was no fire there. The wide black chimney made a background for the pale blue of her dress. She said,
    â€œI’ve seen him.”
    Mrs. Bowyer’s dancing eyes looked at her with eager interest.
    â€œWhat? Colstone? You’ve seen him?”
    â€œYes, up in the fields.”
    â€œAnd what were you doing up in the fields?”
    â€œI went up to see the Coldstone Ring.”
    â€œYou never!”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t I?”
    A very curious expression came over Mrs. Bowyer’s face.
    â€œAnd you met him there—Mr. Anthony Colstone? Oh Lord, ’tis funny to say it! Anthony Colstone! Son of Ralph—son of James—son of Ambrose—” She stopped with a quiver of laughter. “Sir Jervis’ uncle he was—I can remember him. I was a little maid of six when he quarrelled with his father and went away. Jervis and I were playing in the garden—there wasn’t any Sir about him then—three months younger than me, and a limb. We were playing, and we were quarrelling, and Mr. Ambrose come out to us looking like a bit of blued linen, and he says, ‘It’s a pity to quarrel, children. My father’s quarrelled with me.’ And he kissed us and said good-bye, and nobody never saw him any more—and that’s more than ninety years ago.” She began to rock herself slowly. “Ninety-four years ago come Christmas—no, ’twas in the summer, for we were making daisy chains.” She rocked again, her hands folded on the black alpaca apron, then asked suddenly, “What’s he like? Mr. Ambrose wasn’t nothing to look at, but Mr. James, his brother that